Constantinopolis Read online

  Zophia paused for a few more minutes and thought things through. She decided she must try to warn the other defenders in case they did not know. She turned her horse and set off again, riding through the thin tree line and back out to the streets. She rode past terrified citizens that were trying to get a few possessions together and running out of their homes, trying to keep their families together. Everyone was stumbling around in stunned disbelief.

  Zophia quickly realized that the news had spread far beyond her already. She also realized from the actions of the people around her that they had given up hope. The city had fallen. How had their blessed Constantinople fallen? Was there any way to save the city?

  As she rode further away from the walls, the dome of St. Sophia began to rise up. Amid her tears and anguish she focused on the dome. She felt a moment of peace. She knew she had to go there. She wanted to be in her church. She hoped if Constantine had survived he might have made his way there. He would not go back to the palace, as it was connected to the walls and might have already fallen. If there was still any hope the city could be defended, she could use the church as a base camp to gather and send out information. She thought of stopping first to try to send a message back to the walls. She looked around for any soldiers or even a willing citizen but there was no one. The only people in the streets were citizens and they were running away in a panic as quickly as possible. She would not be able to do anything until she was further away from the land walls.

  She started out toward St. Sophia but then decided she would first ride over to the harbor of the Golden Horn to see what was happening. She was able to reach the Horn in only a few minutes. The scene was chaos. Huge crowds had formed near the docks. The people were primarily Italians but also many Greeks, clutching a few possessions. They were pressed forward trying to climb aboard the Genoese and Venetian galleys. The sailors stood aboard the ships, weapons out, preventing most of the people from boarding the ships. The crowd was screaming, pleading for help, to be allowed to board the ships and escape from the city.

  Zophia looked out over the horn and could see the Turkish fleet closing in on the city both from across the Horn and from the Bosporus. The sea chain was no longer defended and some of the Ottoman ships were already astride it. Sailors were hacking at the wooden booms that connected the links. The chain would be broken in a matter of minutes, and the full fleet would be in the horn. She also noticed that some of the Italian ships had already departed from the harbor, and some were sailing toward Galata, perhaps hoping for protection from the independent Genoese city.

  With some luck, a few people were going to be able to escape by ship. Should she try to do so? She almost laughed in her despair. She would never leave her city, her emperor. God would protect her and the city, and if God did not, then it was his will that the city would fall and his will that the people would suffer. She accepted this, but like Jesus in the garden, she feared what was to come. She turned her horse slowly away and continued on to St. Sophia.

  As she approached the great cathedral she saw others making their way to the church, some individuals, and many families, all streaming to St. Sophia. She remembered the ancient legend that the church would never fall, that even if the walls themselves were breached, God would intervene and save the city before St. Sophia fell.

  She entered the nave of the church under the great doors and made her way to the sanctuary. Normally the women worshiped upstairs in the gallery but today men and women were huddled together on the main floor below the great dome. Fathers and mothers knelt in prayer, holding their children tightly. Tears streamed down many faces.

  Many recognized Zophia and came forward to kiss her and touch her robes. They asked about Constantine, had she seen him? Did she know what was happening in the city? She did not. But she gave them what comfort she could. She led small prayers with clusters of people. She brought blankets to children and held them for a few minutes, feeling them shiver beneath her. She looked up at the great archangels above, and prayed to Jesus and the Virgin to protect them, to deliver them, to save the city.

  A Greek soldier entered the back of the cathedral and shouted that the Turks were getting closer. He had lost his weapon and was wounded in the head, blood trickling down his face. A great wallow of dread rose out of the crowd. Zophia saw the terror. She tried to avoid the eyes of the children. Acolytes ran to the great doors, locking them closed.

  The priests at the altar called the people together for prayer. The crowd moved closer to the altar, holding hands, keeping their children close, praying for deliverance, begging the Holy Father to keep the cathedral safe, to keep the city safe.

  Zophia prayed with the rest of them. She prayed for the city. Her glorious Constantinople. The city had stood for 1100 years, a beacon of light amid the darkness. Certainly there had been much evil done within the city, as in all human cities, but amidst the dark terrors of the centuries, the city had kept the people safe and happy.

  She prayed for the people of Constantinople. They were hardly a tithe of the former population but they were still the people of this city. They belonged to it and the city belonged to them. Everything was about to change forever. They were losing their city. And they were losing their freedom, their honor, their lives. Nothing would ever be the same for any of them again.

  She prayed for Constantine, her only and great love on this earth. She was so thankful for every moment they had had together. She smiled as she thought of their time talking, enjoying the city, holding each other, making love. She could have asked for nobody and nothing better. She hoped to join him soon. Join him in heaven. She felt in her heart he was already gone. She whispered to him “I will see you soon my dear. Please help me through what is to come.”

  As she prayed she could hear the banging begin behind her. Loud and deep banging on the doors. They were here. The lamenting of the crowd grew. She could hear crying, the whimpering of the children. There was a chopping sound, the Turks were beating on the doors with axes. She heard a crash. She kept her eyes closed, praying for them all. They were through.

  Zophia whispered a final few words of prayer and turned to see. The great doors were ripped open and dozens of Ottomans were pouring in, well armored with swords drawn. A priest ran up to demand that they not defile the great church. A Turk stepped forward and cut his head from his body with one stroke. Zophia felt a tug on her arm. A little girl, no more than eight, was standing near her with her parents. They were all trembling in fear. Zophia smiled down at her as best she could. She wanted to hold Zophia’s hand as well as her mother’s. Zophia took the tiny hand and held it, trying to let some courage and comfort flow through to the child.

  More Turks were streaming through the doors by the moment. They were spreading out. Soon they reached the families. They began by killing all of the elderly and the very young children. Zophia was horrified when one Ottoman ripped a baby out of the arms of her mother and dashed it against the wall. They were sorting the families for slaves, and it was clear the young, strong and particularly the beautiful women were the most desirable.

  The Turks were ripping the families apart, making no effort to keep the families together but rather taking the people they wanted as possessions. Beautiful young women were dragged toward the entrance, or thrown down to the marble floor right in the middle of the church to be raped.

  An Ottoman reached Zophia and the family. She could feel the little girl hanging on as tightly as she could. The Turk was angry and wild eyed. Zophia asked him to spare the family. She spoke Turkish which surprised him and caused him to stop for a moment. He looked at her and then raised his sword and lashed out at the father, wounding him horribly in the chest and arm. The father fell backward on the marble, slipping on his own blood, which was pumping out of his chest from the gaping wound. The little girl and her mother were screaming in terror. The Turk stepped forward and stabbed the father again in the chest, driving his sword deep inside him. The body shivered and then was still.
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br />   The Turk ripped his sword out of the father and turned to the rest of them. He grabbed a silk sash he had tucked into his belt and tied the mother and daughter together by the hand and then pushed them down to the floor. Zophia felt another hand grab hers. A second Turk had grabbed hold of her and was attempting to pull her away. The first Ottoman turned and screamed at the second one, raising his sword threateningly. The second Turk let go and moved away, seeking his own prizes.

  The Ottoman stepped forward and roughly grabbed Zophia by the hair. He knocked her back on to the bloody marble, falling on top of her. He was strong and Zophia could smell his foul, alcohol-laced breath. She tried to fight him off but he was far too strong. He pulled up her robes and fiddled with his pants. She felt a sharp pain as he brutally shoved himself inside her, holding her neck with a gloved hand and choking her as he raped her.

  She was helpless, angry and humiliated. There was nothing she could do. Even screaming was impossible. He pressed on her grunting and thrusting inside her. She opened her eyes and looked into the eyes of the Archangel Michael staring down at her from above. She thought of Constantine, trying to drive this horror from her mind. She hoped he had not suffered too much, that his death had been just a moment. She hoped this Turk would kill her after and she could join him in heaven. She prayed this to Michael and to God.

  With a final loud grunt the Turk finished and pushed himself roughly off. He grabbed Zophia again by the hair and dragged her to the mother and her young girl. He now tied Zophia to the mother and once he found they were secure, he left in search of other prizes.

  The mother was staring at Zophia in shock, holding her young child who was cowering against her. Zophia tried to compose herself as best she could and pulled the mother and child closer to her, trying to provide what comfort she could despite the trauma she had just endured.

  She also looked around her to see what was happening. The Turks were continuing to collect and tie people together, and were mercilessly killing those too young and too old to have any value. They were also pillaging everything of value in reach, grabbing gold and silver chalices and icons, and hacking away at gilded frames on the walls. A group of priests were standing near the altar, trying to hold on to a few precious relics. They were surrounded by armed Ottomans with swords raised, threatening them loudly and lunging at the priests. The standoff could not last long. Individual family members who had been torn apart were calling out to each other in the sanctuary, trying to keep in contact as long as possible. These desperate cries were intermixed with the scream of women being raped and the moans of the wounded and dying.

  Perhaps a half hour passed and their Ottoman returned, leading a string of seven additional slaves. He tied these to the mother and then to Zophia’s horror he returned to her. He was smiling now and slurring words to her. He did not even bother untying her from the little girl but simply pressed Zophia back to the cold and bloody marble, and began raping her again, less brutally this time but still as terribly. She closed her eyes, praying, thinking of her fallen city, and thinking of Constantine.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  TUESDAY, MAY 29, 1453, NOON

  Mehmet sat astride his horse in the early morning hours. He had watched the Ottoman irregulars, his most expendable troops attacking the Palisade for several hours. He could watch the press of men against the wooden walls with each flash of cannon. The attacking men were exhausted, and would not continue their assault much longer, but that was fine by the Sultan. They had served their purpose, keeping a constant assault against the defenders that would have served to tire and weaken them, and to inflict at least some casualties.

  Zaganos was next to him, sharing this moment with his Sultan. They both knew their lives were probably at stake, Zaganos’s more than Mehmet’s for even if Halil felt unable to remove the Sultan, he surely would demand the death of this upstart Christian convert for any bargain.

  Zaganos spoke to an aide who sent messages quickly through the ranks, calling back the auxiliary forces. Within a few minutes they were all away from the wall but there was no pause. With a new order, the Anatolian contingent of regular Ottoman soldiers streamed forward, attacking the same small portion of the wooden palisade, keeping up the pressure, looking for weaknesses. Throughout the cannons roared, sending a constant barrage at the walls. Some of the shots landed short of the walls, wounding and killing scores of Turks. It did not matter. The Sultan had men and to spare, and if this assault failed or succeeded the casualties would matter little.

  “How are we doing?” he asked Zaganos.

  “So far, well, My Lord.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Zaganos laughed. “Perhaps it means nothing. There have been no disasters, but then none were expected. We are keeping up pressure, and they must be getting tired inside. Everything is going according to plan so far. However, it all will depend on whether we get into the city.”

  “What more can we do?”

  “Nothing My Lord. It is in Allah’s hands.”

  Several more hours passed. The Anatolian troops battled hard, relentlessly pushing forward. They seemed to be making some progress, but from where they stood it did not seem they could get consistent forces over the walls. They would throw up a few ladders, the Greeks would push them back. A few Turks would make it over the wall, but never enough. And already they too were tiring from the battle.

  Mehmet turned again to Zaganos. “Call the Janissaries forward, I will address them.”

  The moment had come for Mehmet. The most important moment of his life. He had gambled everything on this siege, against the advice of all of the senior advisors, against his father’s advice when he was still alive. He was thought rash and impetuous by Halil and all of the senior counselors of the empire. Were they correct? He had been so sure of himself. He had planned so carefully. Was he not Allah’s shadow on the earth? Had he not known since he was a young boy that it was his destiny to take this city? Had he not suffered embarrassment and doubt for years?

  Now it was down to this one moment. He had one more attack to make. He had only his Janissaries left. He had depended on Christian converts as his top advisors, and now he would rely on Christian converts to capture the city. If they failed, he would fail with them.

  Soon they were gathered near his tent and ready for Mehmet to address them. They were his elite regiment, given the best training and equipment. They numbered approximately five thousand. They cheered Mehmet with his approach.

  “My elite warriors of Allah. You see the Greeks still standing before us? They are infidels. They hold your city back from you. They hold back your treasure, your gold and silver and slaves. Will you let them?”

  “No!” roared the men.

  “Inside this city there is wealth immeasurable. More than a thousand years of treasure. When you breach these walls you will have three days to take everything you want. That is the will and promise of Allah. All of this is given to you if you will take it. Will you take it?”

  The men shouted again, beating swords and spears on their shields.

  “We cannot stay here forever. The infidels have friends, the Italians and the Hungarians. We must take the city now. I have weakened these Greeks with the attacks of lesser men, but I have left the victory for you. You go forth now to glory. You must take the city or you must not come back! Will you take it?”

  The men screamed their approval, even louder now. They were wild eyed and stirred with passion. Mehmet had ordered the Anatolians back a few minutes before. The timing was perfect. He rode back toward the city at a trot, his Janissaries, running along side him, chanting and cheering him. He stopped for a moment, drew his sword, and then spurred his horse forward in a gallop. A huge roar erupted from the Janissaries who charged the walls in a sprint. Mehmet stopped his horse about 100 yards from the walls. The Janissaries crashed into the palisade like a wave crashing on the rocks. They were shouting, screaming, throwing up ladders and streaming over, swinging their swords sa
vagely as they went.

  Mehmet watched the attack, his heart in his throat. They must succeed and they must do it now, or everything was lost. Within just a few minutes he thought he was beginning to notice a change. Before the ladders would hit the wall but stay up only for a few moments. Now there were a dozen or more ladders in place, and they seemed to be staying there. Janissaries were climbing in a steady stream and climbing or falling over the walls. He felt a surge of exhilaration. Was it possible they were succeeding? Were they going to take the city? He was delighted to see an Ottoman banner waving over the stockade. Would it last?

  He was surrounded by men on both sides. Long lines of men had formed each direction as far as the eye could see. The men of the previous assaults had come to watch the final one. They were exhausted, some wounded. They had come without command to witness this assault, as if they knew the fate of the city depended on this last desperate attempt.

  Minutes passed. The ladders remained. Mehmet held his breath. Were they advancing? Was it possible the city was his at last? He noticed the eastern sky beginning to brighten slightly. Dawn was not far off. Perhaps the start of a new world for him.

  Another flash. He saw not one banner but several. They waved wildly over the palisades. He thought he saw cheering and excitement from the Janissaries still not over the wall. He turned to Zaganos.

  “Ride forward and see what is happening.”

  The Pasha spurred his horse forward into the darkness. Mehmet waited without patience. Each moment seemed to last an hour. Finally he made out Zaganos’s form returning to him.

  “We are through My Lord! We are through! The city is ours! The city is ours!”